


The Abolition of Nature

by rosemilagros



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Private School, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemilagros/pseuds/rosemilagros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1942. Sam Seaborn is sent from his comfortable California home to a New Hampshire boarding school where students are expected to spend each day in preparation for enlistment. The war is the last thing Sam wants to think about, especially after meeting Josh Lyman, his jaunty roommate who can get away with just about anything.</p><p>But after the beginning of the fall semester something changes in Josh, and Sam suspects it has something to do with their English teacher, Mr. Ziegler.</p><p>Warnings for period-typical homophobia, anti-Semitism, and misogyny. Heavily inspired by "A Separate Peace" by John Knowles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [TWW Big Bang](http://twwbigbang.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.
> 
> Heavily inspired by "A Separate Peace" by John Knowles.

 

> "I was used to finding something deadly in things that attracted me; there was always something deadly lurking in anything I wanted, anything I loved."  
>  — John Knowles

 

Sam never considered that he could like New England, for its landscape, four seasons, or else. At the time he took his trip to the region for what it was meant to be—a punishment. He visited New England before, to his uncle's cottage in Cape Cod, and once to a ski resort in Vermont, and more to what his Western mind considered to be New England (anything north of Virginia); but outside of its short and mild summer season the whole region seemed to be a nothing but mass of rain and dead leaves and, during the winter months, an endless amount of snow.

When Sam's father and mother sat him down at the dining room table of their Orange County home, the open window behind him inviting a warm breeze, and told him that he would further his schooling in New Hampshire at the same uptight academy his father attended at his age, and his father before him, and his father before him, Sam did consider it a punishment, despite his mother's assurances that it was not.

Hurst Alexander was, Sam gathered, as old as bread and brick and one of the many sources of his father's outdated worldviews and lack of emotional warmth—as well as his lack of qualms about sending his only son three-thousand miles away to a strange boarding school where he knew absolutely no one.

It was the summer of '42. Everything was about the war; for months, everything had been about the war; but it seemed as if life was always that way, and always would be; like the entire existence of the world only came to animation once their boys were sent over there, and everything before that was invented.

Sam was never questioned about his opinion of war and the Germans and nationalism, but as he was approaching that age, hardly a day went by that he wasn't asked about enlistment. He stayed informed by reading his father's newspapers after him; every morning's headline was either good or bad and never in between. Sam could tell which it was by the expression on his father's face at the breakfast table—though, in the last days before he left, while Sam was in the room, his expression was entirely one of disgust.

His mother drove him to the train station on a particularly hot day in early June. Many of the commercial airliners closed down months ago, and Sam had never been less excited to go travelling.

He remembered the headline of this particular day for more than one reason: it was printed large and simple on the front page, "MEXICO JOINS THE WAR", and the man who held the paper was not his father. He didn't see his father that morning; he made sure to leave for work before Sam was up. The words 'emotional warmth' were underlined in Sam's journal that day, in the middle of a sentence, between bitter words.

The train ride was long but Sam entertained himself with the novels he brought along and long-winded journal entries detailing expectations of this new school and his anger at his parents, with emphasis on his father's discompassion. He had apparently been feeling generous enough to pay for a room aboard the train, which Sam shared with a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Bill—the one holding the paper.

He got off the train in Virginia to visit with grandmother as scheduled. It was only since the New Year that he last visited, but she acted like it was years, and like Sam had grown two-feet in height since they last saw each other. His grandfather was long gone but Mawmaw was well on her own, occupied with gardening and knitting and keeping up with the housework. Sam had always been more connected to his grandmother than anyone else in the family, and it was nice to spend a few quiet days in a comfortable place, not surrounded by people who despised his being.

His parents had evidently neglected to mention to Mawmaw the reason for his banishment from California—or had outright lied. Sam had no idea how his grandmother would react to that news. She was not as old-fashioned as most women her age, and absolutely not as old-fashioned as the men, but she was Christian—at least more than any of her offspring. She made Sam attend church the morning he left for Hurst Alexander: one final blessing before she released her dear grandson into the wild.

"Don't let those nasty Yankee boys corrupt you," she said when they walked to the train platform, and kissed his cheek. He couldn't tell if she was joking or not, so he just smiled and said, "I won't."

Without a bed to lie down on, the ride to New Hampshire was even more unbearable than the one from California. Within the first hour he grew bored reading and found himself content to stare out the window at the farmland and rolling hills, imagining what this school might be like and getting a sick feeling when he considered the possibility that he wouldn't make a single friend. He imagined himself eating his lunches alone, walking alone to class every day, studying alone in his dorm room while a group of boys played football on the quad outside the window.

Every once in awhile the train passed through a small town: clusters of homes around general stores and gas stations and little white chapels with names like First Assembly of God and East Village Fellowship. These little towns faded into larger ones with more houses and buildings and less greenland, and then even more buildings and no houses and no grass at all, until Sam became aware that they were no longer in the countryside at all and were in fact approaching a city. He was checking his map to determine their approximate location when the man sitting next to him tapped his knee. "Hey, kid," he said. Sam lowered the map, and the man pointed past him, out the window. "If you look down out that way, you might be able to see the White House."

It was tiny, a porcelain-white square, shining like glass in the sun, in front of a carpet of emerald grass. At this distance it was no bigger than the fingerprint Sam left on the window when he tried to touch it, and the Washington Monument stood in front of it like a little gray toothpick. Even in its miniature form, when Sam gazed at that gleaming white edifice, he could feel the strength and weakness and wisdom and foolishness of a century-and-a-half course through him.

"That man in there is doing some damn good work," the man beside him said, "and you're getting that from a Southerner."

And then it was gone, vanished, eaten by trees and less important buildings.

The rest of the trip was much of the same, small town after small town, and countryside. Traffic came and went with each stop, taking on as many passengers as were let off, the crowd thinning as the day went on, until Sam was the only one left in the car. Beyond a speckled curtain of trees that lined the track, the land and sky to the west were obscured in peach-orange by the setting sun, and when the train broke through the trees to a stretch of farmland, the orange light flooded the compartment as well.

Sam arrived past dusk at a tiny station in town.

A single lamp lit the platform. There was a small ticket-box but it was dark and locked-up, and there was not another soul in sight. He took his bags to a bench outside the station and sat, waiting, foolishly, for a car to arrive. The night was warm, warmer than he expected, and insects chirped in the bushes behind him.

It was not very long before a boy his age approached from the side. Sam watched as the boy walked toward him, both hands in his pockets, looking at Sam like he already knew him.

He introduced himself with a handshake and a crooked smile; he knew Sam's name already, and called himself Josh, and at once Sam was charmed by his carefree manner and his subtle, nasal accent. "C'mon, I'll show you the way back to campus," he said.

—

Josh walked him all the way to the campus, at the edge of town, which was nothing more than a few blocks of houses, a tiny shopping district, and a diner. The campus seemed enormous on his first night there, its shadows grossly distorting its size, expanding its shapes and sizes.

Josh knew the school well. He spouted off the names of buildings and their functions like he studied them all his life, but Sam was too tired from his travels to retain the information. They encountered other students only once the entire walk, a group of boys, all who said hello to Josh and one who high-fived him. Once they passed and their banter faded, all that surrounded the two of them were crickets and cicadas and the leaves rustled by night breezes.

The dormitory, instead of being the red-brick lifeless square Sam pictured, was a wide Georgian farmhouse, with a porch and green shutters. They entered through the back door, moths and smaller insects buzzing around the porch-lamp on the wall beside it. They opened the door just as another man exited, and Josh stopped in front of him. "Mr. McGarry," he said in surprise.

The man was older but not any taller than Josh or himself and his face was weary, drawn-in, around a pair of sad eyes. "Josh," he said, his voice stern but free of anger, like a father's. "I just came looking for you. Curfew was 20 minutes ago."

"I was picking up Sam here from the station," Josh replied, and Mr. McGarry's eyes passed over Sam, "like Mr. Phillips asked me to."

"You're the one from California?" McGarry looked at him carefully, and Sam got the feeling this man knew a lot more about him than just where he came from.

"Yes, sir. Sam Seaborn." He offered his hand and after a half-second of hesitation, Mr. McGarry took it.

"Welcome to Hurst Alexander, Mr. Seaborn. We hope you make the most of what we have to offer." He smiled, almost like an afterthought, and Sam thought he saw him wipe his palm against his leg when they released each other's hand.

"And I hope to give you the best of what I have to offer," he replied.

McGarry smiled. "That's what we like to hear."

They still stood in the open doorway, Josh keeping the door open with his shoulder and letting several bugs inside. "Was there something specific you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked after a pause in conversation.

"It's nothing important," McGarry said. He patted Josh's shoulder. "Why don't you come see me in my office tomorrow during lunch and we'll talk then? You boys get some rest now. It was nice meeting you, Sam."

They stepped aside for him and watched as he walked off.

"Mr. McGarry's substitute headmaster for the summer," Josh explained on their way up the stairs, dragging one of Sam's bags behind him. "You caught him at a good time. He's not usually in such a great mood."

Their room was on the second floor, a large corner room with two windows and old gray wooden floors, and a twin bed for them both on either side of the casement window, with matching desks and dressers. That first night in the dormitory, Sam fell asleep almost immediately.

On his third night there he and Josh snuck out for the first time. They waited until 11, when Josh assured him that their dorm's supervisor would be asleep. Sam wasn't told where they were going but followed silently as Josh led him around the walls of the gymnasium and across the field. Eventually they reached the chapel, an uneven gray-stone building with long glass windows.

"What are we doing here?" Sam asked. Josh shushed him. He had known Josh for less than a week, but they bonded quickly, quicker than any other friend Sam ever had, and he trusted him enough not to ask any more questions.

Around the back of the chapel were a group of three boys, each with a cigarette in their mouth or hand, the tobacco-ends burning orange in the dark. Two of the boys Sam recognized from his classes, both of whom had been introduced to him by Josh. "We have a newcomer among us," said one of them, a tall fellow named Henry, who was in Josh and his French class.

"What's going on here?" Sam asked. He smiled a bit, though he tried not to; he got the sense that he was being initiated into a secret club.

"Welcome to the smoking room," Josh said as he took a cigarette from Joe, Josh's good friend, who occupied the dorm next to theirs. The third boy, who Sam recognized vaguely, sat on the ground next to him.

Without asking, Henry put a cigarette into Sam's hand and lit it. "Sam," he said, still smiling. "This is Joe, Warner, you know Josh well enough, and we've already met. The knowledge of this spot doesn't go beyond the six of us. Understand?"

Sam smiled. He actually had, apparently, begun initiation into a secret club. "I understand," he agreed.

Henry lit his cigarette. "Good."

Sam had smoked before; every once in awhile he and his friend Matthew would go out behind the shed of his house and share a cigarette Sam stole from his father. He never enjoyed it, and he didn't think Matt did either, but the pleasure came from the thrill of it and the secrecy, breaking the rules and not being caught, and Sam saw that it was much the same concept with these boys.

They couldn't escape the war at their age. Any conversation with any adult was inevitably turned into a series of questions regarding enlistment and when they planned to go through with it. They were 16 now, nearly 17, and it was unpatriotic to avoid thinking about their obligation to their country. Even the teachers served as reminders, taking any opportunity they could to bring up what they young men owed their nation and the rest of the world. Here, behind the chapel, it seemed like none of that existed. They could forget about the war and about schoolwork, at least for a little while before they had to return to their studies, parting from the place where enlistment and the draft couldn't find them.

Aside from Josh, Sam found he got along with Warner the most. The boy always had something to say, something profound, which all the other boys laughed off. Warner certainly wasn't afraid of confronting his inner thoughts, not like the rest of them, and while they smoked and drank and talked about which teachers they hated most, Sam liked to sit with Warner and listen to him ramble like a drunken poet, speaking whatever odd thoughts came to his head.

"What's the point of holding off till we're 18?" he said one night during a lull in conversation, so that everyone could hear. "If you're so afraid of dying, why not get it over with now?"

Henry replied, "Well, Warn, when one is afraid of something, one generally tries to avoid it." They all watched as Warner inhaled his cigarette and tilted his head back, releasing the smoke toward the stars. He didn't reply to Henry.

"Besides, the war could be over by the time any of us turn 18," Sam pointed out. Joe let out a low laugh and Henry scoffed.

"C'mon, now," said Josh. "Sam's got a point."

They were all afraid of the draft, they were all afraid of the pressure to enlist, and they brushed the discussion off their shoulders with laughter that no one wanted to admit stemmed from nervousness. Henry was a year older than they were. He'd by 18 by the end of the school year.

—

There were never as many students at Hurst Alexander in the summer as there were during the regular school year. The class loads were light. It was, for all intents and purposes, a summer camp. They played football on the quad, swam in the river, laughed, paid not enough attention to their schoolwork, and snuck out at night to smoke cigarettes together in the dark.

The summer session was late mornings and the sound of crickets and cool breezes through the windows at night, vacant hallways and lethargic teachers and swimming in the river, watching sunsets and staying up late and smoking cigarettes after dinner. Sam never wanted it to end. Josh was the embodiment of all this, his confidence and wild hair, his easy smile and teasing laugh. There had never been anyone he got along with so well. Sam didn't know it then but he would know it soon, before the autumn school year began, that even then, he had been chosen as Josh's best friend. For Josh Lyman, things didn't simply happen—he made them happen, just as he wanted them, a flawless grand design made to look effortless in execution.

Their dorm was away from the center of campus, where many of the teachers stayed in the newer buildings with better accommodations; and within their house their room was far enough from the eyes of Mr. Phillips: the supervisor stayed on the first floor, on the other side of the building. They each had a twin bed on one side of the window, adequate for teenage boys in prime health, but neither spacious nor comfortable.

Although the house was one of the oldest on campus and looked like it might topple over in a harsh wind, it was unfortunately not as drafty as Sam imagined it would be. The windows were still old and difficult to open. Their room faced south and got so hot during the day that by night the heat still lingered. Sam prayed for rainy nights, when they opened the windows as far as they would go, alleviating the humidity of their room with cool, rainy air.

On one of these nights Josh lay on his back on top of the covers in an undershirt and briefs, one arm above his head like it was tied there and his face turned away. Sam thought he was already asleep when he closed his textbook and stood up from the desk. When he sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his slippers, Josh turned his head at the sound of the springs creaking. Sam hadn't yet turned out the light, and he waited for Josh to say something.

They hadn't known each other a month, but when they spent each day together and had their meals side-by-side, it felt like years that they'd been friends. It wasn't unusual for them to end each day with laughs about the morning's activities or the way Mr. Phillips parted his hair, the kind of shared humor that solidifies friendships, and Sam waited for Josh to tell him a joke he'd thought up.

"So… I think I've waited long enough to ask—why'd you get sent here?" He didn't move from his position, one arm above his head, fingers playing between the gaps in headboard.

Sam was nearly used to Josh's abruptness, but this caught him by surprise.

"Don't try to act like you came all the way from Los Angeles for the good education. You're smack in the middle of your high school career, and you decide to enter in summer classes when they're halfway over? Either you have incredibly bad timing—which I've already learned is untrue—or something happened in California that either got you kicked out or made you pack your bags yourself. So which was it?"

"I'm too tired for this right now." Sam pulled his feet onto the bed.

"You broke eye contact right there. That's a red flag."

He shut off the lamp and the room turned black. "Good night, Josh."

"Fine, fine. I'll find out sooner or later."

Sam turned over in bed, slipping one leg beneath the covers and keeping the other above to catch the breeze from the open window. He had no doubt Josh would find out sooner or later—even if the truth didn't come from Sam's lips, he would find out. Sam just hoped he could hold that moment off until he and Josh were no longer sleeping five feet from one another.

—

Henry was manager of the crew, which meant he was allowed full access to the boat house, and in the leniency of the summer session he often took advantage of this power.

On weekends, when they had nothing else to do, he and his friends took the smaller boats onto the river, either to race or find a nice spot for swimming. Sam and Josh often took them out alone, one of the small canoes that no one used or cared about, always covered in sand and soil, that they didn't have to worry about damaging. Students not on crew weren't permitted to take boats out for any reason, but anyone could get away with it every once in a while, especially with Henry in charge.

One boring Saturday afternoon, he and Josh took a boat out well beyond school grounds, downstream, away from town, where they wouldn't be seen. Josh talked the whole way, told stories about his childhood that sounded like half-truths and did hardly any rowing at all. They let the current carry them, adjusting their course every few minutes to stop the boat from running up against the bank. They passed an aimless fisherman, as Sam doubted there were many fish around this part of the river, especially at this time of year. Josh waved to the man and the man waved back, then pushed back his hat and called out: "You boys from up at the academy?"

Josh replied immediately, unhindered as Sam was by fear of any consequences, as they both knew they travelled far past where they should have. "We are, sir!" Josh called, then, as an afterthought: "You won't tell on us, will you, mister?"

The fisherman laughed and shook his head. "Not unless you give me a good reason! You boys be careful, now. There's some big ol' rocks down the way once you get up near the hills."

"Thank you, sir!" Josh replied, polite as ever, as they drifted further away from the man.

"You shouldn't have said anything to him," Sam whispered, looking over his shoulder at the fisherman when they had gotten well enough away from him.

"Why not?" Josh asked. "He was nice."

Sam glared at the back of his friend's head; he didn't need to see his face to know that he was smirking. "We could've gotten in trouble. We could still get in trouble."

Josh stopped rowing and turned around, rocking the boat just slightly. "Will you relax?" He smiled, his voice melodically laidback.

Sam relaxed his oars and the boat drifted in the water, carried only by the gentle push of the slow river. They were at a narrow part of the stream; trees hung low over either side. The sun beat heavily on Sam's neck; he expected it to be burnt by the time they got back to campus.

"You're right. I'm just worried about getting caught."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that when you're with me." Josh stood up suddenly, violently rocking the boat from side to side, and Sam gripped it with both hands. "C'mon," he said. "Let's go for a swim."

"Here? Seriously?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

Sam watched as Josh pulled his shirt over his head and threw it to the floor of the boat. He sat back down to remove his shoes, and Sam felt himself growing more uncomfortable with each piece of clothing that was removed.

"I didn't bring my bathing suit," he said.

Josh laughed. "So what? Go in your boxer shorts."

Sam looked down at his feet, watching as Josh's shirt soaked up the river water on the floor of the canoe. "Well, I don't want to walk back to campus with nothing wet but my shorts, do I?" He looked up just in time to see Josh unfastening his trousers.

"You're right. Let's just go commando, then. What's a little nudity between two pals?"

Sam felt his throat drying up. "What about the boat?"

Josh pulled his trousers down, and thankfully stopped at that. Sam's eyes flickered to Josh's hand, his thumb tucked between his skin and the waistband of his shorts, then quickly upward to his smirking face.

"What're you so afraid of?" he asked. His eyes moved to Sam's stomach. "You got something hidden under there?"

"What?"

"Don't be shy about it."

In a quick motion, Josh wrapped one arm around Sam's neck playfully and tried to pull up his shirt. "What is it? A birthmark or a tattoo?"

"Quit it! Get off me!" Sam struggled against his grip, like a wrestling match, rocking the boat violently back and forth and sloshing water into the canoe. "I'm serious, Josh! Quit it!"

"All right, all right."

He let him go before the boat was capsized, or one of them fell into the water, and Sam pulled his shirt down again. As much as he liked and admired Josh, he was overbearing sometimes, forcing his ways onto others and then laughing at their irritation.

"But I'm going in whether you are or not." Josh pulled down his shorts and Sam turned his eyes away, but not before he caught a glimpse of Josh's backside. He jumped in, splashing water across Sam's chest and leaving him alone in the swaying canoe.

Josh's head resurfaced not far from the edge of the boat. He smiled at Sam and wiped the water from his brow, bobbing up and down what must have been a deep spot. "C'mon in, pal! Be a sport!" He showed off some backstrokes, pushing himself further away from the boat.

Sam could see only inches of Josh's pale skin beneath the surface of the river, but the lone thought of his body said that he should know better than to join him. They had changed in front of each other before, in their room, but this was different: half a mile away from campus, alone in a romantic setting, no one to bother them and hours before anyone would notice they were missing.

"How long are you going to be in there?" Sam called.

"I'm sure the wait wouldn't feel so long if you came in too."

Sam knew he shouldn't have allowed himself to be put in this situation in the first place. He was here because he wanted to be. He wanted to be around Josh, wanted to be the first person that Josh went to for activities like this, wanted to be alone with him. Never before had Sam gotten to be a sidekick to someone who was so favored; there was something that made him unappealing to his peers, something about him they were able to detect which always drove them away. Either Josh did not possess this same awareness, or he just didn't care.

Sam didn't want to ruin this for himself. He was well-liked here, and not just by the teachers (which was a miracle in itself; he was sure most of them knew his reason for being in New Hampshire). He couldn't allow himself to make the same mistake he did in California; but that didn't mean he needed to stop himself from having harmless fun.

With one oar Sam pushed the boat toward the riverbank and tied it to an exposed tree root. He took off his shirt and draped it over one of the seats, not as carelessly as Josh had, and hoped that his friend wasn't watching as he pulled off his trousers one leg at a time.

"Hey, hey, hey! What do you think you're doing?" Josh called.

Sam looked up at him. "What?"

"I took off my boxers, you take off yours!"

Sam hesitated; but he did not argue with Josh. After a moment he turned around and pulled off his underwear. Josh didn't say a word, and it unnerved Sam not to know what he was thinking. He jumped into the water without looking at him.

When Sam's head broke the surface, he saw that Josh had moved not far upstream, and wiped the water from his eyes before swimming toward him. The atmosphere was different now, not as playful as it had been; cooler. The water was exhilarating and clear, not briny like the Pacific waters he was used to, and not warm; but the sun beat down on the river all day and anywhere that was not shaded by trees was warm enough. They treaded near these shadows and when the wind blew Sam felt the shade of its swaying leaves pass over his chest and shoulders.

Josh's wild hair was tamed back with water and a droplet hung from the tip of his nose. He stared at Sam wordlessly, his breath labored by constant treading, and without warning he sunk below the water. Sam followed. The sounds of the woods gave way to the river's white noise, the chirping birds and rustling leaves disappearing to underwater echoes, and the sight of Josh's feet kicking away from him, pale skin turned green by the river and the light.

They swam further upstream and resurfaced at a shallower spot several yards from the boat, where their feet were able to touch the craggy riverbed. Sam's shoulders made it barely above the water level. They stood facing each other, water dripping from their hair and face, the rest of their bodies hidden by the water.

"What do you think of Warner?" Sam asked. Josh was only inches from him. They spoke in low tones like whispering secrets, like they sometimes did in their dorm room when the night was too late to let them speak louder.

"What am I supposed to think of him?" Josh asked.

"I think he's insightful. Like he's already done everything that can be done."

Josh didn't respond; it was several deep breaths before he spoke. "Why did your parents send you away?"

Sam looked away. Now that they were still his breathing should have calmed, but his lungs felt heavy, like they refused to take in air. "Do you really want to know that badly?"

Josh spread his arms out and pushed them back and forth beneath the water, making ripples. "I've heard rumors," he said.

Sam frowned and looked down in the water. He could see Josh's bare chest beneath the surface, and his own, illuminated through its blue-green filter by the afternoon sun. He didn't look him in the eye. "What rumors?"

Josh didn't answer him. He kept moving his arms in the water, rhythmically, back and forth like wings. The ripples he created patted Sam's chest.

"My mother came home early from a piano lesson," Sam said. "On Wednesdays she teaches a girl down the street. I guess she was sick that day, I don't know. They cancelled the lesson. I didn't hear here when she came in. She came up the stairs to my bedroom, to tell me she was home, and she found my friend and me together."

It was a while before Josh looked up. Sam could find no distinct reaction, no surprise or disgust or hatred. He struggled to steady his breathing. "My father's a state senator," he continued. Still, Josh did not react. "No one is allowed to know."

His eyes were the same: emotional; worried, perhaps, but unreadable.

"I know," he said. Sam could not look away from his eyes, dark and sort of sad, even in the sunlight.

He put his hands on Sam's neck, cool against his skin and the hot blood beneath it, and kissed him softly, his lips wet and ice-cold with river water and his mouth warm.

No one noticed their tardiness at dinner, and only Joe commented on their wet hair with an innocuous, "Nice day for a swim?" which was easily responded to with laughter.

—

Josh could undoubtedly attain anything he wanted when all of his charm and intellect were applied. He was handsome in an approachable way—not any handsomer than Sam, but humbly attractive—the kind of handsome an average person valued more than Sam's stylish good looks. Though Sam was smart, a natural student (a memory adapt for test-taking and trivial information), Josh had the kind of intellect Sam envied. He could think on his feet, could find creative solutions to problems, inside the classroom and out. It seemed like he ruled Hurst Alexander, like he had a supernatural hold over its instructors and much of the student body. It was a wonder that he got away with so much. Granted that this was the summer session, and the lack of staff and supervision made every boy slightly more mischievous than he might have been in the fall, but Josh's abilities went beyond that. The teachers seemed to purposefully turn a blind eye to his antics, or even allow them to happen. When Mr. Phillips caught other boys sneaking back to their rooms past curfew and issued detentions left and right, he let Josh off with a warning. None of his teachers seemed to care when he was late to class, even the ones with supposedly strict rules regarding tardiness. Other boys caught smoking were given a day's detention or a trip to the headmaster's office; Josh was never given more than a chiding.

By proximity, Sam reaped the benefits of his immunity to punishment. He and Josh could stay out as late as they liked, take the boats out on the river whenever they wanted, could skip dinner without anyone noticing. As long as he was with Josh, he was immune to real-world consequences. Henry told him one evening while they were smoking behind the chapel with a few of the younger boys that Josh had family connections to the school.

"His dad and Mr. McGarry were buddies; best friends," he said, taking a long drag. "Josh is like a nephew to him. That boy could get away with murder around here… well, if it wasn't for Dr. Bartlet."

"Who's Dr. Bartlet?" Sam asked.

"He's the headmaster during the regular school year. He and McGarry are thick as thieves. Better with a joke than McGarry, but I'd watch out for his temper if I were you. He's definitely not as soft on Josh as his second-in-command, but I doubt he'd give him so much as a slap on the wrist while McGarry's around." There was a hint of jealousy and condescension in his voice, one that Sam hadn't detected before, but one that he could easily imagine being shared among their group of friends.

Josh's relation to McGarry explained a lot about his situation at Hurst Alexander. It wasn't Josh's charms that earned him a free pass from discipline, but something that was granted to him by family connections. He had no idea what kind of home Josh came from but he could very well imagine that it was one in which he was handed everything on a silver platter. Sam had no reason to be jealous of him; he even felt bad for him. Josh probably didn't know how to work for anything—how could he, when he had never been taught? Josh did well in his classes, especially for someone that never took the time to study, but Sam was better. He didn't have to rely solely on luck and favoritism to earn an A.

—

They laid that night in the same bed, Sam on his side and Josh on his back, neither of them quite comfortable on the small mattress, but they stayed to listen to each other's breathing.

"I'm thinking I might enlist."

For a moment Sam didn't react. He was so bored of talking about the war and enlistment; any statement about it could not be enough to impact him. He lifted his head up, adjusting his arm to hold it there. "This year?"

Josh turned his head toward him. "Yeah. I turn 17 in October."

"That's too soon."

"I don't know. It's just like Warner said, why wait? If we're going to die, we might as well get it over with."

"Promise me one thing," Sam said. "You'll wait until I'm ready to enlist, so we can do it together."

In the light from the window he could see Josh flash a smile, but it didn't seem genuine. "A deal's a deal."

Sam took his pillow and returned to his bed. Enlistment seemed ages away; so did the age of 17—that terrible age, when you could not go two days without an adult telling you about someone they knew who was younger and already enlisted. The war was everywhere, but nowhere to them. Europe was far away, Germany even farther. They weren't allowed to be terrified of enlistment, of war, of death. Enlistment was something they owed to the country. Running from it was just as terrifying as running to it, and the thought of Josh beside him as he marched into war did not make it any more appealing.

—

On a Friday after French class Josh pulled Sam aside on the quad. He had been absent from all his classes since lunch, and among the people Sam questioned, no one had seen him. He had that intense look on his face, like he was on the verge of a smile, and he gripped Sam's shoulder fiercely.

"Where were you?" Sam asked. "We had an exam today. Didn't you remember?"

"I was busy," he replied.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking," he said, like that was a perfectly sound excuse. "Why don't we go to the beach tonight?"

"Is this what you skipped all your classes for?"

"Yeah. Tonight'll be perfect. It's the weekend; nobody'll notice we're gone. We'll take our bikes and we'll be back by breakfast tomorrow."

"The beach is hours away."

"C'mon. Live a little. Don't be a prude."

"I'm not a prude, Josh. I just forgot to pack my bicycle in my suitcase."

He shrugged. "Then we'll take a cab."

"Where are you going to get the money for a cab?"

"I already took care of everything. Don't worry about it, all right? Just be ready after dinner." He was gone before Sam could protest, disappeared into the crowd of students headed back to the dormitory before dinner began.

Josh was nowhere to be found at dinner, but that wasn't at all unusual and no one even mentioned his absence. Sam was worried but excited. He would be more worried if he was without the protection of Josh's immunity to consequence. Their room was dark when Sam got back and he changed out of his tie and into a dark shirt, something that would blend into the night while they made their escape. It was getting late and the sun was halfway down when Josh returned with a big smile on his face.

Mr. Phillips went to sleep early on Friday nights; getting past him was the easy part. They managed not to run into any of the other boys on their way out of the house, and stuck to the less frequented paths as they made their way quickly into town.

"I snuck out during dinner and used the telephone at the deli," Josh explained when they were safely away from campus. "The cab's going to pick us up at the train station. Where we met, remember?"

Sam remembered well enough. The cab picked them up on schedule and they slipped away in the night, like two criminals on the run.

The beach was pitch black when they arrived. The boardwalk there was not like the ones at home. It was made of old, gray wood, and pricked Sam's palm when he laid his hand on the guardrail separating them from the sand. The ocean breeze was cold. The lights of the restaurants and carnival rides drowned out any light of the crescent moon. They walked up and down the line of shops but never went into any, buying only cotton candy with the change Josh had left over from the cab. They sat together on a bench to watch the ferris wheel while they ate, but never went on any of the rides themselves. It was less than a half-hour before they left the boardwalk and ventured onto the beach.

The wind coming off the waves was too cold tonight for anyone else to be near it. Sam had wisely brought a windbreaker with him; Josh was obviously uncomfortable only in his polo.

"Do you want my jacket?" he asked, but Josh shook his head.

They were too far from the boardwalk now to share in much of its light. The waves were loud but dark and unseen. Sam could only determine how far they were from the water by distinguishing the wet sand from the dry on his feet. They stopped walking and Josh looked toward the waves, took deep steady breaths, and tilted his head back. "We should have brought our suits," he said, half-serious.

"For swimming?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"It's dangerous, for one thing."

"You have no business having a name like Seaborn when you don't take risks every once in a while."

They sat beside each other in the sand, staring at the eastern night sky and its flat horizon—constellations usually hidden from them by trees and hills. Sam laid back in the sand and Josh kissed him. It was only a moment before he stopped.

"Keep going," Sam said. They didn't usually talk during times like this. It was an unspoken rule. There was no discussion of it, no smiling or flirting. He thought sometimes that Josh did not enjoy it, or was afraid of enjoying it, but he was always the one to initiate. Sam learned not to ask; Josh would come to him when he was ready.

"Someone might see us," Josh said, and he sat up and looked toward the sea again, resting his arms in his lap.

"No one's around," Sam said. He sat up as well, leaning his arms back into the warm sand. He sunk his fingers in until he felt coldness, the layers untouched by sun. "Is everything okay?"

"No." Josh shrugged off his friend's touch and Sam drew back, but he shuddered a breath that felt like an apology. "I knew everything about you before you got here," he said. "I was assigned to you."

This wasn't one of those times Josh was spewing nonsense and not expecting anyone to listen. There was strength behind his words like there rarely was, and it wasn't empty confidence. His words made Sam scared, disappointed. He wasn't sure what they meant but he had an idea. He didn't say anything.

He could hardly make out the outline of Josh's face as he half-turned toward Sam. "McGarry told me everything before you did. I was supposed to make sure you got on the right track. Keep you away from that perverted stuff."

"Josh," he said. "It isn't perverted."

"I have a feeling a lot of the guys at Hurst Alexander would disagree with you."

Sam sat up, putting him at level with Josh. "You can't."

He played with the sand at his feet, picking it up and letting it slip through his fingers like an hourglass. "No," he said. "I can't. I won't. Don't worry about it." He stood up and dusted the sand off his legs and shirt. "We should go."

"It isn't perverted, Josh."

"I wish that were true."

They called a cab from the telephone at the bus station. On the ride home they both fell asleep. The sway of the old winding roads had a hypnotizing effect on the body, and when they arrived outside the campus of Hurst Alexander the cab driver had to wake them by shouting and shaking their knees. Mr. Phillips was waiting for them when they got back to the dormitory.

Mr. McGarry was too loud to have been just woken up. His voice shook the wall that Sam stood against while Josh took his turn inside the headmaster's office, being lectured and yelled at. It was difficult not to listen, even if Sam would have rather gone without hearing what was said. He would have clasped his hands over his ears if Mr. Phillips wasn't standing there beside him, watching him like a prison guard. McGarry's voice bellowed through the door: "This goes so far beyond crossing the line, Josh. You know better than anyone that we've made exceptions for you in the past, but this is something else. Did you really think you were gonna get away with this?"

There was a lull; Josh's voice, softer, indiscernible.

"This isn't funny! You know I had to pull strings to get you in here, and this is exactly the thing that's gonna have you kicked out. Can you imagine what would happen if I told the headmaster about this? In fact, why don't I get him on the phone right now?"

There were more muffled words from Josh, not nearly as loud or audible as McGarry's bellowing, and then silence. Sam jumped when the door opened.

Mr. McGarry looked at the student, then at his chaperone. "Mr. Phillips, can you take Sam back to his dorm? I'll escort Josh back when we're done here."

Sam tried to fall asleep while Josh was gone but he had trouble keeping his eyes closed for more than a second or two. He tried to imagine what McGarry might be saying in there—now that he could no longer hear their conversation, his curiosity was unappeasable. Sam had lost track of time by the time Josh got back, getting too lost in his own thoughts and worries. Josh opened their door, sighing as he entered, and did not turn on the light. Sam kept his head on the pillow and turned to face him as he began to undress in the dark.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently.

Josh unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the floor. "I didn't know you were awake."

Sam watched in the dim light from the window as he took off his shoes and socks and dropped them at the side of his bed. "Were you expelled?"

Josh crawled into bed, still in his shirt and boxers, and Sam could feel his exhaustion, physical, emotional, from across the room. "No," he answered, unsurprised by the question, so flat that Sam wondered if he'd understood the words.

They didn't speak for the remainder of the summer session. It was easy to avoid one another, to only speak when they had to. The days came one after the other; finals were coming up and both of them spent most of their time in independent study. There were no more nights spent smoking cigarettes behind the chapel. He still saw Warner there sometimes, not smoking, just sitting, looking up at the sky, enjoying the last of summer. He felt like Josh was angry at him, like it was his opinion that Sam had gotten him in trouble that night or, perhaps, for the reasons he implied at the beach. It felt like a game was being played against him and the idea of that annoyed Sam, gave him an idea to confront Josh, but he never did, and he never would. Was he supposed to apologize? Was he supposed to forgive Josh? And what for? Or did Josh truly want nothing to do with him anymore?

His other friends were busy ignoring him as well, but for their own purposes and the sake of their grades. He was able to spend time with Warner in his one-occupant room on the top floor of his dormitory. It was comfortable and quiet—a lucky draw during the summer session, a near impossibility in the fall.

He came to Warner one night, crying, while Josh was at the library. They had three cups of tea each and spoke about anything but Josh, and anything but the war, and he fell asleep before Josh even got back to the room. By the next evening he was gone, back to Connecticut, along with a great deal of the student body.

Their summer did not end with fanfare, or a good story to tell, and neither did it run full-steam before abruptly stopping like Sam would prefer. It ended with a fizzle, a car slowly rolling to a stop at the bottom of a hill, hot bathwater turned lukewarm. The two days he stayed after Josh left went slowly, boring, few teachers and fewer students left on campus, staring at the empty bed across from his, which Josh had not bothered to make before he left.


	2. First Semester Begins: End of Summer

He stayed in South Carolina with his grandmother for the month and a half before classes started up again. He spoke to his mother over the phone just once, told her all about the academy and did not have to try to make it sound better than it was.

"Do you think you're getting better?" she asked over the phone, after he complained about all the rain they had throughout the month, her voice crackling over the long-distance.

He knew what she meant but he did not wish to answer. He was afraid she would be able to hear the lie in his voice, even across a distant and strained connection. "Yeah," he answered, after not too long of a delay. "I actually started to forget about all that."

"Good," she said with relief. He wondered what she told everyone back home, all the nosy housewives on their street she spent her time gossiping with, his friends from school, his teachers and his aunts and uncles; she took it as an opportunity to boast, no doubt, about her son's intelligence and how well he was doing at this prestigious New England school no one in California had ever heard of. His mother did not mention his father and Sam did not ask about him. He would refuse to take the phone, no doubt, even if Sam asked to speak to him, or there would be a few seconds of silence on his mother's end before she answered that he wasn't home at the moment, and Sam would swallow that lie like a spoonful of honey.

At the end of September his grandmother saw him off to the station as she had in June, but the train ride this time felt longer, and he could not find a comfortable position in his seat. He hadn't spoken to Josh since leaving the academy. He expected a letter, an apology, however short, attempting to smooth things over before the school year started up again, but nothing came in the mail that was not addressed to his grandmother.

He set off a few days early in hopes of arriving before the crowd, but the closer the train came to New Hampshire the more people he recognized boarding it, and the station at Hurst Alexander swarmed with young men, the youngest among them travelling with their parents and now wishing them goodbye. But most were alone, reuniting with friends they had spoken to only in letters over the summer, and only a few faces he recognized. A hand landed itself on his shoulder from behind as he fought against the crowd, and Sam spun around to face Henry, already dressed in his clean navy-blue uniform.

"Sam, my boy!" he said over the crowd, pulling him into a one-armed hug. He smiled and patted his back. "It feels like ages."

"How've you been?"

"I've been good. Florida in August does wonders for the psyche after the gloomy summer we had up here."

He patted him on the shoulder. "It's good to see you again, Hank."

"I don't think I've seen Josh around here anywhere," Henry said, straining his neck to look over the crowd.

"I'm sure we'll see him later," Sam replied hurriedly.

The campus was busier than it had ever been in the summer. Every dorm building was in use, students coming and going through the doors, throwing footballs at each other across the lawn. Classes did not start for three more days—this was their last chance to hold onto summer freedom. The campus itself had not changed much. The air was cooler, he caught the scent of autumn under his nose as he and Henry made their way to the First Academy building at the center of campus.

He was assigned to room with Josh again, this time in one of the newer buildings toward the center of campus. It would be more difficult for them to get away with the antics they did in summer, but with so many other students in the building they had the advantage of slipping through the cracks. Josh hadn't arrived yet. This was good for Sam; he was able to settle in and be comfortable with his new room, and it gave him time to prepare several jarring comebacks should his reunion with Josh call for them.

All of the school assembled in the chapel on Sunday morning, every student in uniform, hair combed, faces freshly shaven, no missing ties or jackets, no mismatched socks or wrinkled shirts, the sort of misstep that would have been overlooked in the summer. Sam had never seen the chapel so full and as he filed into the pew it felt like an entirely new student body. Classes were scheduled to begin tomorrow but he had yet to see Josh in their dorm or anywhere around campus, and there was no sign of him among the congregation today. He and Henry sat near the front, allowing them to observe the teachers, all of whom sat together, segregated from the students in an apse to the left of the altar.

The sermon spoke of war like those in the summer never had; the words were urgent and hopeful and warned against falling into the selfish habits of youth as they may have over the summer. Sam sensed that this was a change for nobody but himself.

He and Henry whispered back and forth to each other during the hymns, commenting on the teachers and other nonsense. Henry pointed out to him a man sitting at the end of the front row, well-dressed with a rough, square face, his mouth drawn into a hard line. He fiddled with a folded paper in his hand. Beside him sat a dark-haired woman with her gloves folded in her lap, handsome, a cold expression partially obscured beneath her fashionable blue hat. "Dr. Josiah Bartlet," Henry said into his ear. "Our benevolent headmaster. I'd be a little more careful around him than you and Josh were around McGarry."

As they spoke, a man entered from the door at the back of the apse. He opened the door discreetly; the sound of his entrance was covered by the loud organ and everyone's attention to the lyrics on their pamphlets. Sam wouldn't have noticed the man if he hadn't already been looking in his direction. The man, unfashionably dressed, took the open seat behind Dr. Bartlet and whispered something in the headmaster's ear, to which Bartlet nodded but did not respond. He sat back in his seat and ran a hand over his balding head, watching the service with no expression.

He did not look like one of their teachers. He wore a dark, ill-fitted suit and hunched shoulders; his face drawn and eyes drooped. He was out of place among the well-groomed educators of Hurst Alexander; his dark hair and eyes set him apart from the fair Anglo-Saxon descendants that surrounded him. His beard was most striking of all, unkempt and thick, unfashionable for his occupation and impractical for the weather.

Sam leaned over to Henry. "Who's that behind Dr. Bartlet?" 

"Mr. Ziegler. He teaches Literature," he said in the same practical way he answered every question.

Sam studied the professor, his thick beard, his dark eyes. "Jewish fellow?" he asked.

"German, too, if you can believe it," answered Henry. "He and his wife got out before the war. A friend of McGarry's, I think. You can imagine how bristled everybody's folks were when they hired him."

The hymn came to a close. After a moment Dr. Bartlet rose from his seat and crossed the altar to the podium. The chapel was silent as he took his glasses from his breast pocket and unfolded the piece of paper in his hands. He was shorter than Sam expected, but his presence was commanding and as he spoke Sam could feel the reverence which he drew from his audience. 

"Welcome to Hurst Alexander's 163rd school year. Most of you already know who I am, but to the freshmen among you: Hello. My name is Josiah Bartlet. I am your headmaster. You may refer to me as Dr. Bartlet, or, if you're looking to get on my bad side, Mr. Bartlet. I will learn your names soon enough, but for your individual sakes let's hope that's not  _ too _ soon."

The congregation ejected a gentle, polite laugh.

"Those of you who attended our classes this past summer will know that I was absent for the duration of the session. Given the circumstances, some of our substitutes may have been lenient on the rules we have here at our fine academy, but I intend to commence this school year like any other. You know the rules we have, and you know the punishments for breaking them. Those that do not soon will. Study hard, pay attention in class, take the appropriate amount of time for recreation and you will do just fine. Many great men have walked through these halls, have learned in these classrooms, have sat in the pews where you now sit. When they were your age they were not unlike yourselves.

"At Hurst Alexander we have a duty to educate you and groom you into the fine young men you are more than capable of becoming. But you also have a duty not only to yourself, but to your school as well, to your peers, your family, and your country. We cannot control those around us. We may only control ourselves. You are a catalyst for change. Make us proud."

The area around the chapel swarmed with students when the service let out. Sam stood with Henry under the tree on the front lawn while they spoke to Joe and Warner. He could see Dr. Bartlet and Mr. McGarry and other teachers standing at the entrance of the chapel, talking and shaking hands with each other. Mr. Ziegler stood with them as well, talking with Mr. Hilliard, the French teacher he and Josh had over the summer. He made brief eye contact with Sam, a second longer than a mistake, before returning to his conversation.

Sam stopped back at his room before lunch. The door was half-open, and he stepped through it cautiously. Josh was standing over his bed, pulling fresh sheets onto the mattress, his open suitcase on the floor, half unpacked.

"Sam, buddy!" he called, before Sam could react. He tucked the last corner over the mattress before coming to the door and patting him on the shoulder. "How've ya been?"

When Sam had pictured their reunion, he imagined it after sunset: Josh would be the one walking in on him, catching him in the middle of something important and private or studious, like writing a letter or getting a head start on their assigned reading. Sam would say only hello to him, and Josh would be humble and apologetic about how he left things.

When Sam didn't respond Josh wrapped his arms around him briefly and patted his shoulder again before returning to making his bed.

"You weren't at church," Sam said, remaining by the door. He watched as Josh finished covering his bed, lifting the blanket into the air and letting it fall over the mattress slowly.

"Oh, yeah. I wasn't in the mood." He shrugged and threw his pillow down at the top of the bed. "Besides, I got something of a late start here. I had to go down to the office and get my schedule. Which reminds me—where's yours?"

"I'll get it," Sam said, and crossed the room to his desk to take it out of the drawer. Josh took it from his hands and compared the two.

"Trigonometry, French, and English Literature," he read. "Not bad. I was hoping to get you for Physics. Not bad, though, not bad."

No mention was made of their conversation at the beach. Had Josh actually forgotten—or was he purposefully acting like nothing happened? Sam didn't know whether to be angry or grateful that further conflict between them was avoided. It did not take him long to forget, as Josh seemingly had, what transpired before the end of the summer. They kissed, still, late at night after the lights were out and homework was finished. They kissed even that first night, when Josh's clothes were not yet away in his dresser. It was odd to be in the room together, but familiarity came flooding back when Josh crawled under the sheets beside him, waking Sam from a half-sleep, and his legs slid between Sam's.

"I'm sorry," Josh said, facing him. The unbroken eye contact made his apology seem unreal, like his seriousness was meant to mock Sam's pain. He reached out a hand and brushed back a lock of Sam's hair that had fallen onto his forehead.

"For what?" he asked. He was angry at Josh, but should he have been? Sam had been in his position before, conflicted by the urge of youth and true affection, what was real and what was hormonal. Knew how he was sometimes unsure of what his heart and what his body told him. Josh never answered him. He just kissed him and moved on top of him, reached between his thighs. 

When they were done Josh moved back to his bed without a word and Sam could not keep his thoughts together long enough to think about much of anything before they faded and he fell asleep.

The classes this semester were much the same as the courses they took in the summer. They covered much of the same material and Sam did not have to do much more than look over his notes to prepare for exams. The only classes that were new to him were French, which he and the other summer students were able to move to the next course, and English Literature, which was not available over the summer.

Mr. Ziegler was an object of fascination for many of the students. He was so far from what any of them were used to. Most of Hurst Alexander's student body and all the staff were Anglo-Saxon, mostly Protestant, few of them Catholic; there were students with obviously Eastern European names, but their families had been in New England for generations and they were rich and American enough. Aside from Mr. Ziegler, never in the history of the school had there been another Jewish teacher, especially one from overseas, and especially one from Germany. 

Now that campus was too busy to risk smoking outside, the basement of Larose House, he and Josh's dormitory, became their hangout. Here they liked to complain about Ziegler and share theories about him, about why he was hired.

Although only a year older than the rest of them, it was Henry's mode to pretend as if he already knew everything any one of them could want to know—he since he took Ziegler's class the year before, he knew everything there was to know about him. 

"They hired him because they felt bad for him, obviously," he explained one night in the basement. He had a habit of hitching up his pants when he spoke, and he did this now. "And because Bartlet wanted to piss off the rest of administration."

Joe laughed. He stood beside Sam, who had a makeshift seat on an old wooden crate, holding a cigarette but rarely inhaling. "Bullshit," Joe said. "McGarry was the one who hired him. They met when he was over there in the First War. They met, McGarry helped him get out of Europe, and once he was over here he got him a job."

"Have you considered they might've hired him because they thought he'd make a good teacher?" Warner sat on a wooden crate much like Sam's, blowing smoke toward the center of the room. They had cracked a window open to vent the smoke, but most of it still circled around the room, hazing the air.

No one paid Warner any mind, but that didn't seem to bother him at all, being too preoccupied by the more interesting conversation that was going on inside his head. Josh took the cigarette they were sharing from Sam's fingertips and inhaled one long intake. Sam watched as he breathed it out inelegantly, out from his mouth like a cartoon drawing of a cloud blowing wind. "Maybe they just felt bad for him," he said, handing the cigarette back to Sam.

"What for?" Joe smirked.

"Didn't his wife die?"

Henry shook his head. "No, they were divorced."

"He still wears his wedding ring," Sam pointed out.

He genuinely liked Mr. Ziegler. The other boys only liked to talk about him so they could complain about his class or theorize about his past, but Sam genuinely liked him. He was rough on the edges, but he was smart, well-read, and Sam liked the way he taught. The first day of English Literature consisted of nothing but debate about the first chapters of Beowulf, their summer reading assignment, which most of the students hadn't even begun. Sometime during this first class Sam thought that this was his way of weeding out the teacher's pets from the slackers, a much more effective method than having the students stand up one-by-one and say three interesting facts about themselves—though Sam wasn't sure that anything along those lines had ever occurred within the walls of this school. The debate turned out to be himself and two other students out of the twenty-four in class, clearly the only ones who did any of the reading. Ziegler stood at the front of the class and asked a question every minute or so, prolonging the debate to the end of class, an unending pressure on each student he knew had neglected their assignment.

Mr. Ziegler made it known from the first day he was not to be messed with. He did not tolerate unpreparedness: he would not kick anyone out of class for forgetting materials, but he would put no effort forth to help someone when they did. He was like any other teacher in that sense, but he lacked the pride, or rather arrogance, that seemed to run through the veins of every faculty member of Hurst Alexander. He was no tougher than any other teacher, no stricter or lazier, no angrier and no better or worse at lecturing, but there was something different about him that Sam noticed almost immediately, something interior that made its way to the outside in the subtlest of manners. 

Mr. Ziegler built a barrier between himself and his students. He did not go out of his way to be a mentor or try to amaze them with his own knowledge as some teachers did. When he taught, in a way, it was like the students weren't even there. The only times they were given the opportunity to speak was with each other, during debates. He never asked them questions nor verbally tested their knowledge. He didn't do much more than lecture and hand out tests and assignments. He did not want a conversation with his students. This was, most likely, why he proceeded to become so annoyed by Sam.

It was the little things at first that seemed to annoy him—Sam's corrections to the tiniest of errors:

"We see this theme of well-to-do clergymen again in lines 255 through 300, when Chaucer describes the Monk as not a man inclined to study and solitude, but instead—"

"Mr. Ziegler?"

"Yes, Mr. Seaborn?"

"I think you meant 165 through 200. 255 describes the Friar, which is also—"

"165. You're right. Thank you for interrupting us with that extremely important correction."

He allowed a second or two for the sarcasm to seep in and returned to his lecture, slow and monotonous, so that it wasn't unusual for one or two students to fall asleep per class. Sam found his voice soothing, but not in the way these other students did—instead, he found it made these lectures even more pleasant to pay attention to.

Josh meanwhile took advantage of Mr. Ziegler's dispassionate attitude toward teaching. Students were commonly able to sneak in and out of his classroom with ease: Ziegler didn't notice or didn't care to notice. Josh took full advantage of this by arriving late to class nearly every day. Some days he did not come at all. Sam let him copy his lecture notes whenever Josh needed them, not that he had much of a choice when Josh took the notebook from his hands with nothing more than a "you're a pal". 

It irritated him that Josh could effortlessly navigate his way through his studies when Sam had to work enthusiastically to keep his good grades. When Sam was late, once, to their morning French class, he was upbraided by their teacher before he took his seat. He resented when Josh whispered across the aisle to him: "Maybe you should set your alarm a little earlier."

He only took comfort in the thought that he was doing much better than Josh academically; that Josh might look at his next test grade with utter disappointment and Sam would be able to shrug his shoulders and say, "Maybe if you came to class more often," but this moment never came. Their first English Lit. test fell on a Friday, two weeks after the beginning of the semester. Josh made it to class punctually that day without an ounce of worry about the test.

When Mr. Ziegler handed back their graded tests the following Monday, Josh was late again. He opened the door of the classroom in the same manner he always did: slowly but conspicuously; courteously, but not going out of his way to be subtle. Mr. Ziegler stood at the chalkboard, writing up the passages they were to focus on next while the rest of the students reviewed their tests. Sam and a few other boys watched as Josh and Mr. Ziegler made eye contact. Josh closed the door gently.

"Mr. Lyman," Ziegler addressed him. He turned, but did not put down the stick of chalk in his hand. Josh did not move from the door, holding his books and notes at his side. "You've been late nearly every day since the school year began." He did not speak loudly enough for the entire class to hear, but this was a new occurrence—Ziegler reprimanding someone—and all eyes were on Josh. 

"Sorry, Mr. Ziegler," he replied curtly. "It won't happen again."

"Somehow I have trouble believing that. Don't bother coming to my class if you aren't going to take it seriously. You're wasting my time, and I'm wasting yours."

Josh stood there, unsure how to react.

Ziegler placed the chalk in his hand on the ledge beneath the board. "What I'm saying, Mr. Lyman, is that you will not be permitted inside this room unless you arrive to class on time."

He remained motionless, frozen with embarrassment and surprise, as the rest of the class was, by this sudden confrontation. His eyes met momentarily with Sam's, who looked on with uneasiness.

"Leave," Ziegler commanded, and Josh left without another word, plainly humiliated. He returned without hesitation to chalking the reading assignment on the board, and the class went back to looking over their test grades. Josh's test remained on his desk for the rest of class, and after dismissal Sam took it and slipped it in with his papers.

Josh did not turn up at lunch. Sam sat on the lawn with Henry and Joe when they were finished eating, running his fingers back and forth across the grass. Josh's test was still flattened between the pages of his history textbook.

"And Josh just walked out?" Joe asked.

Sam nodded.

"Sounds like Ziegler," said Henry with a laugh, the same way he said everything on the subject of teachers, with an air of superiority and higher knowledge, as if he were decades ahead of any of them, instead of mere months. "He seems quiet most of the time, but the minute somebody pisses him off he'll let everybody in the room know about it. Though I never knew him to be strict about attendance. Josh probably got on his nerves over something else, and Ziegler took the closest opportunity to get back at him."

"That sounds a bit childish, don't you think?"

"Not for someone who keeps their emotions as pent-up as he does."

Tobias Ziegler was fond of tweed, even in the hot weather of September when the professors favored seersucker and linen shirts. His suits were ill-fitting, frumpy, like they were borrowed from an older brother or fat uncle. He was clean, his desk and classroom were organized, but in terms of personal appearance there was not much to praise. His hair went unbrushed most days, a mass of dark curls wrapped around the back of his head, and his beard was uneven and thick, and uncomfortable-looking, obviously trimmed with nothing more than a dull pair of scissors. He didn't seem to enjoy teaching, and Sam wondered how he got roped into this job.

Sam didn't enjoy English literature. The subject itself was interesting; he enjoyed what he read of Shakespeare, which was to be their major focus of study over the semester, but the class, listening to Ziegler lecture for an hour, was not his idea of fascinating education. He saw that Mr. Ziegler was smart, capable, but he lacked the charm and personality needed to engage his students. Still, Sam found himself working on his literature assignments with more dedication than any others. It made no difference the way Mr. Ziegler looked at or spoke to him.

He met Josh outside the First Academy building following his final class that day, where he handed over the test. Sam had folded it in half and refrained from looking at the grade, priding himself in this act of repression, and was disappointed when Josh tucked it away into his notebook uninterestedly.

"Aren't you going to look at it?" Sam asked. He was eager to see what his score was, after all the studying Josh failed to do—in case Ziegler's display this morning wasn't enough to inspire him to start coming to class on time. Josh shrugged when he opened the page, and showed it to Sam, a sloppy 79% written in the top margin. 

Sam did better; he had every question correct aside from one, but this left him nonetheless discontented. He expected the satisfaction of seeing Josh learn his lesson, but somehow, with less than half the effort Sam put into his studies, the boy was able to scrape by.

The next day Josh was absent from Literature, despite being present for their French class very early that same morning. Not wanting to start an argument, Sam did not bring it up in their room that night, and the following day Josh was again absent. Mr. Ziegler stopped Sam as he headed for the door after dismissal. "Mr. Seaborn," he called.

Sam let the two students behind him pass him out the door before walking to Ziegler's desk. He tried not to feel nervous, remembering the scary tone he took with Josh two days before.

He organized the papers scattered on his desk before speaking. "You're good friends with Mr. Lyman?"

"Yes," he replied, more diffident than he intended. "We met during the summer session. We're roommates. We still are." He paused, and interrupted just as Mr. Ziegler was going to speak. "I don't know where he is right now," he said, and then realizing that might have sounded suspicious: "I really don't. I'm not just saying that to cover for him."

"I know you're telling the truth," said Ziegler simply. "I'd like you to tell Mr. Lyman, the next time you see him, that he has been absent from class without an excuse for three days already and if he is absent once more I will have to report him to the headmaster."

"Yes, sir," Sam replied. He thought to leave, but stepped back in front of Ziegler's desk. "Sir? Josh doesn't mean to be disrespectful. I think sometimes, that he's just wired a different way."

"Regardless of what his intentions are, Mr. Seaborn, he is required to attend class every day just like every other student on this campus."

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry." 

He expected to be returned with a 'there's nothing to be sorry about' or something equally as heartening, but Mr. Ziegler only nodded and looked back down at his papers. Sam left.

It was not as satisfying as Sam once thought it would be to see Josh finally being punished for his conduct. He could not, after all, get away with anything at this school. Ziegler seemed to be the only one not in the loop about Josh's special exemption from school regulations.

Josh was present at lunch and eager to complain about the injustice done to him the days before. The weather was still pleasant enough to have their lunch on the lawn, and Josh let his lunch sit in the grass in front of his crossed legs while he went on about Mr. Ziegler. He made an effort to sound more amused than bitter, like it was all a big joke and he would get back at that bastard somehow, but it was obvious to Sam and the other boys as well that Josh was taking this as personally as he took every other insult ever thrown his way.

"He's probably a spy or a communist anyway. That goes beyond regular old Jerry stringency," Josh said before taking a breath. He hadn't touched any of his food yet, either too busy or angry to make time for it in the midst of all his grumbling.

"Don't say that kind of stuff," Sam said.

Maybe they didn't take those kinds of accusations as seriously in New England as they did in California, but Sam was shocked to hear those words so casually thrown about. 

Henry just laughed, and Joe cracked a smile. "How long do you think we could have classes cancelled for if he did turn out to be a Red?"

"I don't think it matters to Josh," Sam replied. "He never bothers to come to class anyway."

The other boys broke out in laughter and Sam felt a swell of self-satisfaction, but when Josh's dejected eyes flickered away from his, he couldn't help but regret his words. Josh stood up wordlessly, taking his lunch with him, and stormed off in the direction of the First Academy building. No one called after him.

—

Josh did, surprisingly, show up for trigonometry later that day, but he took an unusual seat, away from Sam's, and didn't so much as glance at him as he walked in. Sam meant to approach him after class, but lost track of him in the hurried confusion of the late-afternoon hallways. 

Instead he hoped to catch Josh back at their dorm and apologize for what he said at lunch, but Josh was not there, so Sam, as he had done before and would do many more times, waited for him. He came back a little before dinner, when the sun was low in the sky, preparing to set, and closed the door quietly behind him.

Sam turned around from his desk, letting his pen fall into the edge of his textbook. "Hey. Where were you?"

"Nowhere." Josh fell onto his bed face-first, bouncing lightly on the mattress. 

"I, um…" Sam leaned over the back of his chair, studying the curve of Josh's back, his face buried in the blankets, his blazer pulled up to his waist by his awkwardly placed arms. 

Sam stood up and refastened the shirt buttons he had loosened while studying, still watching Josh's sedentary body on the bed, his feet hanging off the end. "I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier. When you stormed off at lunch."

Josh's head tilted slightly toward him, not enough for Sam to see much more of his face than eyelashes and the side of his cheek against the burrow of his blanket. "What?"

"When I made the comment about you skipping class. I didn't mean… I was just trying to be funny, and, I don't know, it came out wrong."

He lifted his head and remarked with curiosity, "I don't even remember that."

Sam was unable to discern if he was trying to avoid embarrassment, if for whatever reason being apologized to embarrassed him, or the insinuation that he was offended by such a meager insult, enough to storm off in the middle of a meal, but he found it difficult to believe that Josh completely missed the end of their conversation, or had somehow forgotten it within the last five hours.

"Oh," replied Sam. "Well… I'm sorry anyway."

"OK." Josh shrugged awkwardly before putting his head back down on the bed. "How long until dinner?"

Sam glanced at his watch. "20 minutes."

Josh turned on his side and faced the wall. Sam crawled onto the bed next to him, coveting the warmth of his body. Josh moved over obligingly but kept his back to Sam, taking a deep inhalation as Sam traced patterns over his jacket with the tips of his fingers. The blazer was old, a little tight on Josh, probably left over from his freshman year, and its dark-blue color had already begun to fade, contrasted by the crisp navy of Sam's, only months old and unstained by dust and dirt and age. Sam pressed his hand flat against Josh's back, smoothing it over the rough fabric, around the curve of his body. Josh stopped his hand, entangled it with his own before letting go and turning over. Sam thought he was going to face him, kiss him, make full use of the twenty minutes they had before dinner, but instead he sat up and looked down at Sam.

They did not touch. Sam kept himself down on the bed, on his side, looking up at him. Josh broke eye contact, looking somewhere at the floor, at Sam's bed just a few feet away. "We should stop doing this," he said.

They touched only once since returning for the fall semester, in the same bed where they now laid, when they had both been too tired to consider much more than their own desires, and the thought of what happened on the beach did not cross their minds, only that the sensation of each other's bodies was comfortable and needn't be asked for, and their actions came like a memory. Now, Sam could almost hear the waves crashing behind Josh's voice, smell the salt of the ocean. He did not want to have this argument again, did not want to feel Josh's sadness, or his own. 

"OK," Sam replied, and got up from the bed.

They went to dinner together. Josh smiled and laughed with Joe and Henry. Sam envied the way he could do that, pretend like nothing was bothering him, like everything was as it should have been, could go through the rest of the day like nothing happened, could even smile and joke with Sam and stare at him with a look that had no trace of pain or resentment.

—

The next morning, by some strange miracle or mark of the Divine, Josh was already in his seat when Sam walked into their English Literature class. He hadn't been in the room when Sam woke up, nor did Sam see him in the bathroom or the hallway on his way to any of his classes. He didn't sit in his usual desk, near Sam's, or even try to speak to Sam as he passed by; Sam almost didn't see him.

"Hey," he said, standing beside his desk. 

Josh sat back in his chair, casually, not perturbed or excited, as if being on time, especially to his second class, was a part of his daily routine. "Hey," he replied, without a smile, and then Mr. Ziegler entered the room and Sam took his seat a few rows behind Josh. Mr. Ziegler didn't call him out, didn't seize the opportunity for a cutting remark along the lines of, _Glad you could join us, Mr. Lyman_ , like their other teachers might have, but Sam did notice a look of pleasant surprise, or perhaps of appeasement, when he spotted Josh's face among the twenty-some students sitting before him.

When class was over Josh stood up from his desk with the other students but dawdled there, unusually slow in gathering his books. Sam stopped just after he passed Josh's desk, as the last of their fellow students exited the classroom ahead of them. "Are you coming?"

Josh held all of his books but he did not move from beside his desk. "In a second," he answered. His eyes were strangely fixed on Sam, so willfully that he thought to ask whether there was something on his face, but then, for the briefest fraction of moment Josh's attention shifted, he blinked, just long enough for Sam to catch.

Over his shoulder he glanced at Mr. Ziegler, faced away from them, writing something on the chalkboard for his next class. "I'll see you at lunch," he said to Josh, and left.

Some yards down the hall Sam stopped and waited. Through the tall windows he watched hoards of students making their way across campus to the cafeteria, one boy running an arch around the crowd to catch up with three of his friends. He waited for Josh to come out of the classroom, but several minutes passed and no one passed in or out of the hall. He left, hurrying down the stairs, so if Josh was soon behind him he would not see that Sam had lingered there. He joined the body of students along the paths between the academic buildings.

Josh never followed him. Sam saw him coming out of Physics that afternoon, another surprise, and they walked home together slowly, a brisk wind brushing against their faces, the kind the campus hadn't experienced the likes of since early spring.

"Are you going to be on time from now on? Or was that just sort of a one-time thing?" Sam asked, and then thought perhaps it was the wrong thing to say.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see," Josh replied.

—

Autumn came to Hurst Alexander quicker than Sam expected. The leaves began to turn before he even had time to notice them, like orange and brown icing on top of their green heads. The yellow trees came the quickest; trees that seemed like they might not change at all were suddenly as bright as a lemon, but the cold was the most jarring of all.

Boys were shivering in their jackets on their walks between classes, when a week ago they had been slinging them over their shoulder. There were no more lunches on the grass or games of football. This was Sam's first experience of a New England autumn.

Josh was, for the most part, the same. He went to all of his classes, studied with Sam when he wanted to, which was not often, but more often than it had been, and he was the same; but Sam couldn't shake the feeling that something was different, that he was hiding something or his feelings toward Sam were changed. Things between them were like they had been early in the summer, before that afternoon in the river. Sam longed to crawl into bed beside him and kiss him, to be in on the secret, to feel like Josh trusted him above anyone else.

He found instead, as he had in the summer, a friend in Warner, and it gave him pleasure—a sadistic sort of satisfaction—to meet and talk and connect with someone without Josh's knowledge, as if having a secret of his own, thought it was not much of a secret at all, dulled the effect of whatever secrets Josh was holding against him.

Warner now lived in the same building he and Josh stayed in over the summer, and Sam felt when they sat together in his room a piece of the summer was saved, suspended, in that small room with its single bed and underwhelming fireplace.

It was early autumn and the weather was still too warm to light a fire, but they often sat around the fireplace as if it was, Sam on Warner's bed and Warner in a wing-back chair, the kind that came with nicer rooms in the old buildings. Students weren't permitted to visit each other's dorms on weekdays, especially during school hours, but since Josh stopped coming to lunch the cafeteria was lonely, lost in the conversations of Henry and Joe whose talks about the war he did not find interesting, and so he came to Warner's room, where Sam knew he could find him eating lunch alone, the way he preferred it. Most days Sam didn't bring his own lunch, and while Warner always offered him half of his own, Sam knew he was already inconveniencing him just by being present, and always declined.

They sat together quietly while Warner ate. Sam never knew what to say. When he finished, he sat his plate on the desk, crumbs and a missed piece of lettuce. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and threw it into the wastebasket. Sam sat with his legs crossed on the bed. "Aren't you eating lunch with Joe and Henry?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. That was enough of an answer.

"And you don't want to eat lunch with them today?"

"When Josh isn't there it feels like… I don't belong with them."

Warner nodded.

Sam thought about, for a moment, kissing him, in that passing unrealistic way one thinks about jumping off a bridge when they cross it, for no real reason other than allowing the imagination to travel where it wants.

"Does Josh know you and I are friends?"

Sam hesitated, hoping he didn't know what Warner was implying. "Of course," he replied.

Warner watched him. "I don't think that he does."

"Of course he does," Sam repeated. "He was there when we met."

It was dismally apparent that Sam meant to mislead him, and Sam could see the understanding of it in Warner's eyes. He wasn't angry, or suspicious, calm and maybe disappointed, but he expected Sam to lie when he asked, and was unsurprised by his answer. He didn't attempt to argue.

"Does Josh know you're here now?"

Sam looked down at his hands. "I don't know where Josh is."

"And that means he shouldn't know where you are?"

"I only mean..." He rubbed his thumb over the palm of his other hand, pressing down on the pressure point in the middle, relaxing the muscles that began to cramp at the beginning of this conversation. "His behavior is different lately. He hasn't been to lunch in weeks. I don't know what he's been doing."

"And you haven't asked him."

"It's more complicated than that."

"So complicated you can't ask what he's up to?"

"Yes."

Sam kept his eyes on his hands. They were safe there, unable to read Warner's expression, relieving him of the anxiety of what his reaction might be, if the secret should slip from Sam's mouth, or if he should find it among Sam's anxious eyes, his writhing hands.

"I know where he is."

Sam looked up. His hand stopped moving. "What do you mean?"

"It's nothing bad," Warner explained, "but I understand why he might want to hide it from you, and Joe and Henry as well. Protecting his pride and all that. He's being tutored."

"By who?"

"Ziegler."

"How do you know?"

"I have him for Greek Literature after lunch. I'm usually the first there, since… I'm a few minutes early… and I always see Josh leaving while I'm on my way there. I ran into him in Ziegler's doorway one time. He seemed embarrassed."

"You really think he's only being tutored?"

Warner shrugged. "It's not like he doesn't need it." Then, as he realized how that might have sounded, "Sorry."

"It's all right," Sam replied, but he wasn't sure why. He was thinking, realizing that what Warner said made sense, but something about it didn't feel right. Josh's poor grades didn't mean he needed a tutor. Josh was smart, and he made sure Sam and everyone else knew it. His poor grades were a consequence of skipping class and not studying. Josh knew, and Sam knew as well, that when Josh applied himself he could do just as well as any other student. 

He stood up. "I've got to go."

Warner glanced at the mantle-clock. "Now? Lunch doesn't end for another twenty minutes."

"Sorry, Warn. I'll see you tomorrow." Sam pulled on his coat and moved to the door. Warner watched him with concern, but did not move from his chair.

"You aren't going to confront Josh, are you?" he asked. "Don't make fun of him for it."

"Don't worry about it." Sam left without answering him, and crossed campus as quickly as he could. Warner's house wasn't as far from the First Academy building as some of the others, but it wasn't close, and he would have to move quickly if he wanted to catch Josh at Ziegler's.

He wasn't eager to catch him in the act so to speak, but he was angry, angry that Josh might hide something so trivial from him, that he thought Sam could not be trusted with so innocuous a piece of information. Was this the reason for his behavior recently? Sam thought of it with a smile, if it really was something as simple as that.

Did this then mean that Josh was jealous of him? For all his confidence it was only a farce; he sought to improve his grades without Sam's knowledge, and once they were improved it would look as if the accomplishment was all his own. This was the real competition between them. Not in sports or their resistance of each other or clever remarks. Nothing, after all, could induce a more radical change in Josh's attitude toward academics than competition.

He would talk to Josh about it and have him admit the truth—coming to Ziegler's room under the pretense of having an important question regarding the assigned reading which could not wait for tomorrow's class. He would run into him just as he left Ziegler's office; then he would laugh at Josh's admittance, pretend for a moment not to believe it, and then offer to study with him, or even tutor Josh himself, so they could improve their grade together. This, Sam was sure, would mend their friendship—or at least force Josh to admit his secret to him.

By his watch Sam didn't have much time to make it to the center of campus; it was still fifteen minutes till the end of lunch, but he suspected Josh would leave the building early if he truly took interest in being discreet.

The halls of the building were abandoned, and now with assurance that no one could observe him, Sam dashed up the stairs to Ziegler's classroom. He slowed to a walk as he approached the door; he stood in front of it for a moment, staring at Ziegler's name on the plaque beside it, then at his hand: hovering above the doorknob, shaking. Suddenly behind the ground-glass door he saw a figure move inside the room, and with immediate panic Sam stepped to the side, behind the cover of the wall.

He heard voices—first Mr. Ziegler's, then Josh's— 

"Tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah—"

But there wasn't time to hear more before they came close to the door. Sam skirted back down the hall, around the corner and out of sight. The door opened a moment later, and Sam looked briefly to see Josh and Mr. Ziegler step partly into the hall. Josh looked cautiously to his left and right, making sure there was no one around, and Sam ducked back behind the wall.

"There's still ten minutes till any classes change," said Ziegler.

"I'm afraid of someone find out," Josh replied, after a short pause.

"No one will find out. Not if you don't tell anyone."

For a second or two they were quiet, and Sam risked another look around the corner. Mr. Ziegler was halfway out of sight, standing partially in the doorway of his classroom; Josh stood in front of him, surprisingly close. Sam watched, in astonishment, as Ziegler placed a hand on his shoulder, then his neck, and said something which Sam was too far away to hear. He kissed Josh's forehead, and rubbed his shoulder as they said goodbye to one another. Josh made his way toward Sam and, betraying the resolution he made to confront him, Sam went as fast as he could to the steps.

On the front lawn Sam was sure Josh was too close behind for him to make a complete escape; he waited a half-minute before turning around, and just as Josh emerged from the front door, Sam climbed the concrete steps to meet him.

"Sam," said Josh in undelighted surprise, looking like he'd just been caught in a lie.

Sam stopped halfway up the steps. "Oh, Josh, I thought you were at lunch."

He hesitated, with an open mouth, grasping for an excuse. "No," he said, and paused. "I was turning in some late work to Ziegler."

"Right," said Sam.

Josh nodded. "And you?"

"I was looking for Ziegler, too. Just a question about the reading."

Josh's initial awkwardness from being caught off-guard appeared to wear off, as he conceived that Sam had no suspicions. "There's a minute or two before his next class if you want me to go up with you."

"It can wait till tomorrow."

"OK," Josh said, and started down the stairs.

They walked together along the path which curved in front of the Academy building. Josh was at first quiet, and transitioned slowly into his usual talkative self. Sam could barely listen; the anger and frustration he felt toward his friend were now fully revived. It wasn't true about Josh being tutoring.

He thought about Josh's sudden interest in their subjects, his polar attitude toward Mr. Ziegler, which went from one extreme to another so rapidly—things Sam did not expect to be changed by the simple introduction of a tutor—and he wondered if these conferences Josh was having with their teacher were of an entirely separate nature.

 


End file.
